Page 48 of Molt

Because I remember every wound you’ve ever had. Because I’ve watched you bleed across lifetimes. Because some primitive, pathetic part of me still believes it’s my responsibility to put you back together.

“Because I’m asking.”

Her expression softens. “Okay.”

One word.

A dangerous fucking word.

She follows me into the bathroom.

I turn on the sink.

The room is too small.

Immediately.

Painfully.

Lenora stands behind me while I wet a washcloth. I can see her in the mirror. She can see me. Neither of us looks away.

“Give me your hand.”

She does.

I hold her wrist instead of her palm. Even that is too much.

Her pulse jumps beneath my fingers.

Mine answers.

I clean the blood carefully. The opening has already begun closing.

Of course it has.

Her body repairs itself faster during the molt.

Renews. Replaces. Takes.

“What happens when it’s finished?”

I keep my eyes on her hand. “You already know.”

“No. I know you die.”

My fingers pause.

“What happens to me?”

“You live.”

“As you?”

I look at her. “Not exactly.”

Her throat moves when she swallows. “What does that mean?”

“Pieces of me become part of you.”